


Ghosting

by thebarricadebaes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: All the dialogue is from Spring Awakening, Alternate Universe: Enjolras survives, Alternate Universe: Grantaire survives, Alternate Universe: Marius dies, Angst, Complete, M/M, One-off, PTSD, Sad Enjolras, Spring Awakening Dialogue, Suicide trigger warning, just altered to fit les mis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebarricadebaes/pseuds/thebarricadebaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>After the barricade falls and the rebellion heaves its last sigh of resistance, only two escape. But the problem is that only one of them has anything to live for, and it's not the one you'd think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosting

**Author's Note:**

> okay so please don't read this if you are suicidal or are triggered by such. Same goes for implied PTSD  
> this was inspired by spring awakening's lyrics and theme for one of the songs, though former knowledge is not necessary by any means.

The bartender set the liquor on the table with deafening finality. In each crimson drop of liquid, Grantaire saw the blood of his friends, and the defiant red of the burning flag. Each drop reflected chortling faces from around the room. Each face was distorted enough that Grantaire could imagine his friends. Two young men sat in a corner, talking intently with their hands and staring at a piece of parchment. They could be Combeferre and Courfeyrac without much strain of the imagination on Grantaire’s part. The misleading portrait of a man in the wine glass, smiling softly and humming to himself while he wrote something could be Joly. The charismatic blond walking towards him with a scowl could be Enjolras.   
Grantaire tensed and looked up from his trip of melancholia. It was indeed Enjolras. The once mighty man, who had held himself with such dignity that he had denied himself drink and ensured he be chaste, was now a broken man. His golden curls were unbrushed, and they matted together. The once brilliant spark in his vibrant blue eyes was replaced by a soft grief. Not only had his allies died at the barricade, he had led them there. Enjolras remembered the days when his reassurances of victory sprung from his lips and supporters flocked to his cause. Enjolras took another step forward and almost toppled over, his eyes unfocused.  
Grantaire decided it was a ripe time to speak, “Enjolras?” Grantaire regretted it as soon as he uttered his once proud leader’s name. He could recall the punishment when he had called his name in a public place before. Enjolras thought it would put them and their revolution in danger. Not that it mattered anymore. Grantaire doubted Enjolras had the spark left in him to get angry at him for something that no longer mattered. Grantaire was right. Enjolras stiffened when he heard his name, blue eyes flashing around in a semblance of defiance, but Grantaire could see the pain written into the new wrinkles in Enjolras’s skin, and the slope of his back, hunched forward. It was a stark opposite to Enjolras’s bold stance and fiery eyes. Grantaire could’ve sworn he felt a physical blow to his stomach due to the pain of it all. Enjolras’s eyes finally found him, and Grantaire almost flinched as he saw the lack of everything that Enjolras was. Desperation lurked in those eyes, and undisguised pain swarmed like maggots in the blue depths.   
“Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered, the sight of a living comrade should’ve raised Enjolras’s spirit, but his voice still sounded dead and hopeless. “You frightened me.” The last sentence was spoken in monotone, obviously more for the effect of continuing the conversation. There was no conviction in any of his words, not even in his statement. Grantaire felt like crying.   
“What are you looking for?” he said instead. He knew. Enjolras was looking for his friends’ resolute faces, ready to raise Hell on the streets of Paris and release their people from it. Instead, he found Grantaire: the eternal cynic, who had known all along that death would befall on all who tried to rebel. He was the last person Enjolras wished to see. Enjolras needed a believer right now, who could reassure him that all of their deaths were not in vain. Enjolras needed to make a difference, but he would not find the effects of his grand rebellion here.   
Enjolras broke eye contact with Grantaire: a first. “If only I knew.” Grantaire could see the bags under Enjolras’s eyes and guessed that he suffered from the same dreams that Grantaire did. Grantaire rarely bothered sleeping anymore; the nightmares were too terrifying and left him drenched in sweat.   
Grantaire sighed, “Then what’s the use of looking?” He knew he was mirroring Enjolras’s internal monologue. He knew that encouraging Enjolras’s apathy would not lead anywhere favorable, so he attempted to turn the conversation around. “I’m on the way home, want to come?” Grantaire and Enjolras had kissed once, on the barricade, when Enjolras still had hope. Enjolras had taken Grantaire in his strong grip and kissed him in celebration when they had the barricade assembled. Grantaire had mentioned it not much later, and had earned a harsh reprimand. He had gotten so drunk after igniting Enjolras’s anger that he barely had time to see any of the fighting. He never even honored his friends by watching them die and supporting them in their deaths. Many of their corpses had been spread far apart. Grantaire didn’t believe that they deserved to die alone and wished he could have died alongside them. He was suggesting another kiss to Enjolras. Maybe the cruel fire of reprimand would come again and Enjolras would find himself.  
“I don’t know,” Enjolras said simply, slumping into a chair beside Grantaire.  
Grantaire, desperate to keep the conversation going said something he instantly regretted. “God, you remember how we used to run back to the Café and play revolutionaries?” Enjolras stiffened, his eyes glistening as he resigned to the fact that his entire rebellion had only been child’s play, inconsequential in the long run. “Combeferre, Courfeyrac, all the others, you, and I?” Grantaire took another glance at his wine, and sipped at it, too nervous to down the glass.   
“Actually, I better go,” Enjolras said stiffly. It was obvious he was angry, but even his anger was monotone and hopeless. His anger had once been enough to send any grown man running and weeping to mother, but now it only succeeded in frightening Grantaire about his leader’s mental state.   
Desperate now, Grantaire took a swig of wine. He had never seen Enjolras being the one broken by the rebellion. Grantaire had known that if he survived, he would have no future and no hope, but he dealt with his insecurities and his sorrows in alcohol. Life after the barricade was not actually that different than the days before. “Walk as far as my house with me,” Grantaire tried, his muscles tensing. He had a bad feeling about what Enjolras was going to do. Apathy and Enjolras did not go well together and he feared what would happen if Enjolras was left alone again.  
Enjolras shook his head, “I wish I could.” His voice was clipped, as it had always been, which was a slight comfort to the drunk. However, before, his voice was clipped because he spoke with confidence and he got his point through with body language and fiery words. Now he just didn’t care enough to give proper answers.   
Grantaire touched Enjolras’s shoulder, and the other man flinched. Grantaire kept his hand on Enjolras’s warm skin, as he felt a desperate need to ensure Enjolras’s closeness. “Then why don’t you?” He felt Enjolras writhe under his touch and he let go of Enjolras’s soldier.   
Enjolras shrugged hopelessly, “Eight glasses of wine, sixteen shots of vodka, a funeral on the barricade.” Grantaire sighed. Enjolras had turned to alcohol after all.   
“Just for an hour,” Grantaire begged.  
“I can’t.”  
Grantaire bowed his head, and departed. He felt guilt crippling him, and he stopped. He turned around and loped back in the direction of the bar.   
Enjolras was standing in the street, looking lonely and isolated and afraid. “For the love of God,” he whispered. “All I had to do was say yes.” Grantaire felt sick. He was too far away to do anything, to say anything. Enjolras suddenly stepped towards Grantaire, but he could not see him. “Grantaire, Grantaire!” Enjolras paced for a few seconds but got no response. Grantaire was frozen in shock and horror. Enjolras pulled his gun out and stared at it for a while.   
Grantaire couldn’t watch. He turned away and started running, sprinting. He flinched and stopped when he heard the gun go off. He collapsed to the street, sobbing. Grantaire wished he had turned and helped. He wished he hadn’t been so drunk and clumsy. He wished he actually could have helped. Grantaire had survived on the barricades, while his friends dropped around him, but he was the only one. Enjolras died on the barricades that day, he had just been wounded in a different manner.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it sucks. I'm publishing this and finishing this at 3am give me a break.


End file.
